The Dead Fool
by RebelWriter6561
Summary: How an impossible April Fool's trick led to discussing dead men, dead bodies, and living dead. Set in the Finding Heart verse, and after The Fall.


~*~ Sadistic writer that I am, I usually get a kick out of making characters suffer (Moffat/Gatiss and I have that in common), but I actually felt bad about picking on Molly. Sorry, dear.  
Also, quick reminder: Loki is using the name Phil as an alias. This story's set after he's been chilling with Sherlock and John for a while, so he's not so batshit crazy anymore, and really chilled out. Also, this is the required After The Fall fic every Sherlock fanfiction writer is supposed to have, except that Sherlock is still not dead and John isn't alone because he has Loki. And I won't say any more than that because reasons.  
Warnings: Scary images and shit  
Musical Muse: West Side Story Soundtrack  
Disclaimer: The mutant plotbunny is mine, everything else belongs to their respective owners.  
Glorious thanks again to my ever-delightful beta Kat.

~*~The Dead Fool~*~

According to the calendar, it was supposed to be Spring. Molly had dressed in hopeful optimism in a bright flowery dress, but between the cold sleet and the fresh batch of corpses, she had been unable to show it off all morning.

Not that her corpses cared what she wore. And most days she only saw about a half-dozen other people – other lab techs and mortuary assistants. Detective Lestrade stopped in sometimes, when he wanted clarification about a report or to observe a body being cut up. It was never often enough that she hoped he was just stopping by to see her. Last she had heard, he had gotten back with his wife.

Molly hadn't seen John or Phil in weeks. After Sherlock's…death, after the body was autopsied – not by her, she couldn't have borne it, and she was too personally involved to be a part of the investigation anyway – and sent away to be buried, she'd seen little of the remaining Boys of Baker Street. But really, after what happened, it was understandable.

Word was that Phil was over at the police headquarters almost as often as Sherlock had been, but from what she heard, he wasn't exactly following in Sherlock's footsteps. It seemed he was trying to clear Sherlock's name by talking to every Detective and Investigator who worked with the dead man, going over report files, and by generally being as big a nuisance as Sherlock had been.

And, yes, word was that occasionally Phil wound up in the holding cells, proclaiming his innocence until John showed up with bail or Lestrade let him out. Molly never heard exactly _how _he always wound there in the first place, but it never seemed to be anything too serious.

They never dropped by the mortuary anymore, especially not John. Molly had been over to 221B a few times for tea since the event, and everything seemed so different. Mrs. Hudson was cheerful as ever, but only in front of people. As soon as she turned away or saw something of Sherlock's out of the corner of her eye, an undeniable look of sorrow dropped over her. Phil was hardly around when Molly was there, which led her to jokingly question John just when he slept, if ever. John's reply of "rarely" seemed to have an interesting undertone that Molly wasn't sure she wanted to know more about. All and all, it was a shame. She really missed the Baker Street boys.

Every time they saw one another, Molly almost couldn't bear seeing John's face, so tired and closed-in. Sherlock's death had almost destroyed him completely. Molly would be at a loss to understand how he kept going if she hadn't seen him with Phil, hadn't seen Phil almost tripping over himself to make John smile, how he kept pushing John to keep moving forward. Any thoughts she might have had when Phil moved in with John and Sherlock – how his presence would be another stumbling block in the pair's quest for happiness – were pushed away when she saw how desperate Phil was to ease John's pain.

Molly may not ever understand the relationship the three used to have, and now, without Sherlock, she knew she never would.

After an uneventful lunch alone, Molly returned to the mortuary to find company in the side cooler. According to the attached note, they were a suspected double-homicide and an unspecified and unrelated death. Her lab assistants were still out at lunch together, but she didn't need their help to begin the procedure. Molly had always preferred to slice up the bodies on her own.

The pair of double-homicides were pushed to the side to wait their turn. "Now, no fighting, you two," Molly jokingly chided them, then stifled her giggle. She never had to worry about the odd, perplexed, and disturbed looks she got when she talked to corpses when she was by herself, which was another reason she preferred it. Molly knew that her habit was most often seen as morbid, but it helped her. And nobody listened anyway.

The corpse with an unspecified death she wheeled over to the cutting station, next to the cleaning station. Giving the middle-aged lady's former body a clinical once-over, Molly decided against washing it off, as it appeared quite clean. Molly mentally made note of that and the rather nice clothes the woman was wearing before her untimely death as she snipped said clothes off.

The next part would have been easier with two people, but Molly had wrangled many a cadaver by herself and knew the best way to get it onto the slab without too much effort. After much trial and error, she managed it without hurting herself. It was undignified, but what the hell, no one was watching.

Sometimes this job gave her the willies. Sometimes, but not often. She was better at handling dead bodies than the live ones, that was for sure.

The body waited patiently as Molly bustled around, prepping a bag for the organs, cleaning the scale, and finding jars in case any organs needed preserving. Midway through her little tasks, Molly realized that she was stalling, not for her assistants to arrive, but for Sherlock to walk through the door and demand something to work on.

Molly missed him. Not in a former-crush way, oh no. He had been her friend, much as he denied it, as unfairly as he treated her and used her only for access to labs and corpses; at the end of the day she still had called him her friend. And she missed him dearly.

There was no reason to keep putting it off. Sherlock wasn't coming back, so there was no reason Molly shouldn't get to work.

Supplies by her side, Molly unwrapped a new scalpel. The corpse was propped up patiently, like it was sleeping, but that didn't deter her. The first incision brought Molly partway down the chest when the body suddenly _moved._

Molly lurched away with a squeak, heart in her throat. Gripping her scalpel tightly, she stared open-mouthed at the cadaver, waiting for another response. It just laid there…like a dead body.

"Okay…just some gas then," Molly gasped to herself. Sometimes the bodies built up gas, and this could easily be another case where she would reach the intestines and have to deal with the _truly lovely _intestinal fumes and other delights a dead body could cook up. This job was so glamorous sometimes.

Molly returned to her spot, giving the head a reproachful tap with her gloved finger.

"I'll have no more of that from you," she warned it, before resuming her slicing. She finished her first incision, and moved to start the other, which would complete the other branch of the 'Y' incision forensic pathologists used to get to the goods inside. When she connected the slices, there was another tremor from the body. Molly rolled her eyes and blew a bit of hair from her face.

"Didn't think you'd listen, did I?" she whispered to herself, and went back to work.

The arm moved. _The arm moved!_ The dead body's arm, the one she had been leaning over to reach the chest, swung out to push against her stomach. Molly jumped back again, and swallowed roughly when the arm drooped down off the edge of the table.

"O-Okay. It's okay." Molly was speaking directly to herself now, not even trying to hide it. "You just…bumped it… and it bumped you back. There's nothing wrong with that, it was just a little accident." Molly turned away to the cooler, wanting some cool air to clear her head.

She froze in the doorway, her breath pluming out into the cold air in shock.

The double homicides were sitting up in their unzipped body bags, looking at each other. Cold skin creaked as their heads turned to her, their unseeing eyes directed at Molly's trembling form. One's face was covered in blood from the bullet wound to the head, the other merely pale and unmoving. They leaned towards her.

Molly backed up, away from the cooler door. She turned around, breathing heavily, and the woman on the stretcher was sitting on the edge of it, looking right at her, her flesh already starting to pull away from the cuts on her chest.

"Oh…God!" Molly squeaked. She nearly tipped over her heels in her rush to back away towards the mortuary door. This wasn't happening, because it _couldn't _be happening, because dead bodies don't act this way no matter what. But the woman was getting off the stretcher, reaching an arm towards her, and from the sounds coming from the cooler, she was about to be joined by the two men.

Terror closed around Molly's throat. She couldn't breathe, couldn't scream even if she wanted too. Legs trembling, gasping for air, she fumbled against the door for the handle. Pulling frantically at it, she let out a winded gasp. It wouldn't open, no matter how hard she tugged. Molly began banging hard against the door, slamming her whole body into it when she heard the clack of heels behind her.

"Someone! Help Me! Please!" Molly called, frantically trying with all her strength to open the door. She glanced behind her, but that was a mistake, because all she could see was a sliced-open woman, leaking blood and reaching for her. Molly whimpered. She leaned back against the unmoving door, closing her eyes and waiting for the worst.

_At least Sherlock would know what happened…_

"AH!" Molly shrieked, but not because she felt the cold clammy hands of death upon her. Instead, to her shock, she had fallen backwards when the door magically opened, and landed quite comfortably in another pair of cold hands. These ones were blessedly familiar and alive.

Molly jerked her head back, but rather than looking up at some well-armed policeman who had arrived to save her life, a pair of brilliant green eyes was glittering down at her with impish glee.

Phil smiled broadly. "April Fools, Molly."

"_Phil?!_" Molly squeaked in shock, before struggling to get out of his hands. "What are you doing, can't you see they're coming to…" Molly trailed off as she got a good look around her mortuary. There were no bodies where there shouldn't be: the woman was on the slab, the men out of sight, presumably lying complacently in the cooler once again.

"What…how…?"

Phil giggled his odd little laugh behind her. He still had a hand on her arm.

"Molly, if I told you how, that would ruin the magic." He stepped past her into the mortuary, flashing a wink as he approached the stretcher. Molly, after a few awkward toddles, followed him. She still felt weak, but if it was from the shock of Phil's "trick" or from his wink was another thing entirely.

Though physically quite similar, Phil and Sherlock were quite different in personality. Sherlock had always been quite forward even during first meetings, and he retained his forwardness no matter how long that association lasted. He never warmed up to anyone – John, of course, was the obvious exception. Phil was initially…well, not shy, but hesitant. After a few meetings, he warmed up to anyone, even Donovan and Anderson. Though, if Molly's own experience and John's eye rolls were anything to go by, there were quite a few double-sided words mixed into Phil's conversations. He had all of Sherlock's bite, but delivered it differently.

He was nothing but courteous to her. Molly remembered, after only a few weeks of his acquaintance, he matter-of-factly informed her that her feelings towards him were flattering, but she had best let them go as he had no intention of returning them. After so long of knowing Sherlock was manipulating her entirely because she liked him, Phil's actual honesty was refreshing. Since then, they all remained on friendly terms, at least until Sherlock's death.

Any initial misgivings anyone had when Phil – alarmingly attractive and unquestionably dodgy – moved in with Sherlock and John soon lost them after observing the trio's interactions. Sherlock and Phil got along like a house on fire, complimenting each other's abilities and bringing terror to anyone who crossed their path. John in turn took care of the pair in the way only he could, in his own understanding way. Molly couldn't help but be grateful that they had shared even such a brief time together, because it obviously made all of them happy in their own way.

Phil was standing over the lady on the operating table, smiling like he was enjoying his own private joke. He was a strange one, that was certain, and in a way that made Sherlock seem normal sometimes. Odd things happened around Phil all the time, but he never seemed to pay them any mind, as if he were really used to it. He had the same sadness around him that Sherlock had, hiding beneath the surface and only contained by pure stubbornness. He and Sherlock had been so alike, and while Phil was covering his grief better than John, it was still so obvious that he missed him. Perhaps more than John, for a reason Molly suspected was true…

When he looked up to smile at her again, Molly felt words pouring out of her before she thought about what she was really asking.

"Did you know what Sherlock was going to do?" Phil blinked quizzically at her, and Molly blushed. There was no reason to ask him that, out of the blue and getting so close to the one-year anniversary of Sherlock's death. But Molly was so afraid of her suspicions. If Phil had anything to do with Sherlock's death, if he had any connection to Jim…

She wasn't quite sure what she would do, but it would make his little prank on her just now seem like a cheerful little gift basket.

Phil smile fell off his face, leaving it strangely vulnerable for a split second, before quickly morphing into a closed-off expression that wouldn't have been out-of-place on Sherlock's. He slowly walked around the table, so it was between him and her. His fingertips tapped on the exposed metal surface in a scattered rhythm. He actually had the decency to look nervous.

"He told me…" Phil, for once, was having trouble coming up with the right words. "…he told me that he might not make it down from the roof. I knew what he meant, but I…I guess I never thought it would actually happen. I never thought Sherlock would leave…" His voice trailed off, painfully hurt. Now his eyes were angry, looking down at the dead woman on the table as if it were a different person he was seeing. Molly was frozen by his words, surprised by their passion. But oh, did she understand now.

"I think…Sherlock was doing what he thought was right. I know he just wanted to keep you safe." She whispered to the floor, unable to see his face. Now she felt as though her heart was breaking in two, sorrow for Phil, at losing the man who he…cared for? Loved? And what about poor John? After so long she had thought the two of them…but if Phil was saying what she thought he was…

He wasn't. "Wha- keep _me _safe?" Phil's awkward sputtering would have been amusing in any other situation. He looked like a startled cat, back arched and green eyes wide with confusion and disbelief. "_I_ don't need protection, why would you- it's John Sherlock needs to keep safe, he asked me to right before he- Sherlock needs to keep _John _safe, always John, except he's too thick to ever come out and say how much he needs it. He's so thick he went and got himself killed rather than say it cause he's such a thick bastard!"

Phil's hands were clenched on the metal table, angry at a dead man. For a second, just a second, Molly was frightened. A nameless emotion grabbed her by the throat when she suddenly saw that there was someone quite unlike her good friend lurking beneath Phil's calm exterior. Something alien and angry.

Phil blinked and was himself again. He breathed deeply and smiled up at her again, calm and in control and looking almost sheepish as how startled she looked.

"Sometimes I just remember how mad he made me." He spoke softly, as if that could make up for the fright she just had. A fright that was quite stronger than what the moving corpses gave her.

"He…he made lots of people feel that way." That was all she could get out, for the moment. Phil looked mad again, but the usual sort of angry, directed at himself this time. _He didn't want to scare me like this_, she thought shakily. _That's sweet of him_.

Moving with all the lanky grace she had come to associate with him, he apologetically moved back around the table and to her. A pair of long cool arms surrounded her in a friendly embrace, and Molly felt safe again. Phil was her friend. He was John's friend. He had been Sherlock's friend. He would never hurt her.

"I just wanted to give you a little scare, that's all, Dear. Just a little joke for April Fool's Day." She didn't have to imagine the smile he was likely wearing. Phil did like pulling tricks.

Molly gently returned the hug, patting his arm kindly.

"It's okay. That was a pretty great prank. I'm still not sure how you did it, though. How did you?" It seemed like such a silly question, after what had just passed between them, but she felt like they needed something to diffuse the leftover tension.

"I won't tell you, silly. Don't worry, they won't do anything again. I can't bring back the dead." He was still smiling and trying to laugh, but nothing could hide the sudden tensing of his form. She tightened her embrace, hugging him as hard as she could around his waist, trying her best to remind him that it was all well as it was. He wasn't a god; he couldn't fix everything.

"Fine, keep your secrets. I just hope you didn't do anything illegal this time." Her weak chuckle was enough to make him relax again. All was well.

She kept giggling, and so did he. They both laughed, her with relief and him with whatever foolish glee he had from pulling a good one on her. He pulled away, still giggling in that peculiar way he had, and she was reminded, once again, that she was very lucky to have him as her friend. Even if he was positively terrifying sometimes.

He loitered around her morgue for a few more minutes, until she glanced at the clock and reminded him that she _was_ on the clock, and he wasn't supposed to be in there in the first place. She gently shooed him out, assuring him that she was quite alright, yes it was a good joke, now please get out. He good-naturedly allowed himself to be pushed to the door, while trying his hardest to convince her that the Queen would be making a public address that night about the true existence of time-traveling aliens.

"Oh, stop it you!" Still laughing, she held the door for him, happy once again to see him smiling so hard. "Now I know why John calls you Loki, you old trickster."

"Ehehe, yeah. That's why." Still laughing, Phil waked out the door.

~*~ Sad news about my big Finding Heart bunny, it's gotten into a massive fight with thirteen dwarf bunnies and a Hobbit-y one. And they're all still fighting with the schoolwork weasel, so it's all touch and go for now. But I hope you all enjoyed this!


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